by Peter Corris
She leaned back and drew a deep breath. The effort of doing it seemed to cause her pain and she aged ten years as she fought for composure. ‘Cliff,’ she said softly. ‘I was pregnant when we split up. I dithered until it was too late to have an abortion. The child was born. A girl. You’re her father.’
2
My first reaction was disbelief. This had to be some kind of fantasy, a product of the treatment she was having or a mental aberration associated with the disease or the prospect of death. It couldn’t be true. Cyn read me right immediately.
‘You don’t believe me.’
‘I’m sorry, no.’
‘It’s true, Cliff. You remember how it was. I hated you. I wanted nothing more to do with you, ever. It’d all gone so terribly wrong. Everything we’d planned had turned to shit.’
I nodded.
‘I had the baby in Bathurst at a Catholic hospital. I used my own name and I didn’t tell anyone about it. Not even my parents. Look.’
She opened her handbag, took out a sheet of paper and thrust it at me. It was an admission record from St Margaret’s Hospital for Women dated about seven months after our final breakup. Cynthia Louise Weimann had been admitted ‘close to confinement’ and discharged eight days later.
I was still resistant, almost hostile. ‘It proves you were pregnant, I guess. It doesn’t prove there was a child.’
‘I know this isn’t easy for you, but it’s true.’
She handed over another document. This was a notification, dated three months back, that Mrs Cynthia Samuels had put her name on the register of women who had given a child up for adoption. The sex of the child was given as female, the place of birth was Bathurst and the adoption date was four days after the date of the hospital admission. I’d done some work in this area once or twice. The purpose of the register was to allow adopted children to locate their natural parents if they wished. They had the option. I folded the paper and handed it back. My hand was shaking, but I still didn’t want to believe it.
‘Cyn. You must have been through hell …’
‘I’ve seen her, Cliff,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen her!’
She wept quietly and I comforted her as best I could. I got another glass of wine and Cyn had mineral water. With an effort she composed herself and told me that she’d caught sight of a particular young woman several times in recent weeks. She was convinced that this woman was watching her. I was still sceptical.
‘You haven’t spoken to her?’
‘No. I’ve never been able to get close enough. She sort of … slips away.’
‘What makes you think she’s … who you think she is? It could be someone, I don’t know, sympathetic but not sure whether to approach you. Or …’
She shook her head. ‘Cliff, she’s the living image of your sister Eve twenty-four years ago. I’m telling you she could be her twin. I know she’s our daughter.’ She scrabbled in her bag and came up with a photograph. It showed Eve in jeans, boots and a sweater smiling into the camera. Short dark hair, thin, beaky nose, wide mouth, my sister was arresting rather than pretty. She was close to 180 centimetres tall and when she was young athletics and surf swimming kept her lean. She’s heavier now which doesn’t hurt her golf. She plays off eight at Moore Park.
‘It’s a copy,’ Cyn said. ‘I had you and me cropped out of it. Don’t know why I still had it. D’you remember where it was taken? A picnic we all went on in Centennial Park.’
‘No. You say this woman resembles Eve?’
‘I’ve only caught glimpses of her. But I’d say she’s identical. Oh, shit!’ Her hand flew up to her face and I saw how thin her wrist was, with the blue veins showing through. ‘Eve doesn’t have a daughter, does she?’
‘No. Two sons.’
‘God. I realise I haven’t thought this through enough. Do you have any children, Cliff? I mean, other children …’
I drank some wine. ‘You didn’t think of that possibility either, did you? Why not?’
You couldn’t keep Cyn on the defensive for long. She drank some of her mineral water and got a fair bit of energy into a snort. ‘You were always a selfish bastard, Cliff. There was only barely enough space in your life for a lover. What with the crims and cops and other low-lifes. There certainly wasn’t enough for a wife. I doubt you’d ever have entertained the idea of having kids. Tell me I’m wrong.’
I had to admit she was right. The only really serious relationships I’d had since Cyn were with Helen Broadway and Glen Withers. Helen had a child and a troubled marriage and in the end she’d opted for the status quo. Glen was a career woman all the way. I’d felt comfortable with arrangements like those.
‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘Maybe you heard from your dad about Hilde Stoner. The tenant I had for a while. She married Frank Parker, who’s—’
‘A policeman. Yes, I heard. So?’
‘I’m a sort of pagan godfather to their son. That’s as close as I thought I’d ever get to parenthood.’
‘Ah, you’re admitting the possibility that you’ve fathered a child. Christ, you’re a hard sell, Cliff.’
‘In my business you have to be. Look, Cyn, what d’you think’s going on here?’
‘That’s typical of you. Analysis rather than engagement.’
‘That’s me.’
‘All right. I think she applied for her birth certificate. Adoptees can do that since the act was changed in 1990. Did you read that book by Charmian Clift’s illegitimate daughter?’
‘No. I read My Brother Jack though—her husband’s best book. Sorry, Cyn. Go on.’
‘I think she applied for her original birth certificate and got my name from it.’ She looked directly at me. ‘Don’t worry. There was no name for the father. I didn’t have to give it.’
I think it was at that moment that I started to believe all this might be true.
Cyn went on to say that she asked the appropriate authorities whether her child had applied for her birth certificate or made enquiries about her, but the rules didn’t allow for that information to be given out.
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘I’ve done a little bit in this line. The idea is to protect the adoptee—in case the parent’s a drunk or a bludger. If you’re right about this, Cyn, why wouldn’t she make herself known to you? You’re obviously affluent and respectable. You live in a big house and drive a flash car. You’ve got a tennis court, I’m told, and isn’t there a boat or two?’
‘Stop it, Cliff. Don’t be such a shit. If she—Jesus, I don’t even know her name—if she got onto me in the last few months she’d have seen a woman wasting away. I spend most of my time going to doctors. I don’t drive anymore; I don’t have the strength. I sold the house and the boat after Colin died and put most of the money in trust for the kids. I live in a unit in Crows Nest. It’s nice but nothing special. The thing is, if she’s been keeping an eye on me in that time she’s probably seen me faint twice in public and once …’
She shook her head, took a deep breath and forced the words out. ‘She might have seen me throw up in the gutter.’
The tears came again and I watched helplessly while she dabbed at her eyes. She seemed to have to gather every ounce of her strength to do just that much. I had the feeling that she was just about all through for the day at a bit past noon. It made me forget all the animosities and injuries of the past and want to do anything I could to help her. Or almost anything. Despite the anger and anguish I felt on her behalf, I was still focused on the main game—the possibility that we’d had a child.
Perhaps Cyn was right in thinking selfishness had kept me childless. I preferred to believe it was something else—a recognition that my failure to sustain relationships and my erratic, hazardous, financially chancy lifestyle made me a poor bet as a father. More than once I’d pulled back from involvement with women who seemed primed for motherhood, not wanting to disappoint them. But I’d also worn childlessness as a sort of badge, a flag of independence and self-sufficiency. All that was
ingrained by now and I was reluctant to surrender it.
Cyn summoned up strength from somewhere and looked directly at me. Her eye makeup was smudged and she had a blurred, off-centre look that gave everything she said an extra weight. ‘I wouldn’t blame her for holding back. Who would want a broken down woman with no tits who chucks in the street for a mother?’
‘Don’t, Cyn.’
‘Damn you, Cliff Hardy. Don’t you pity me. Don’t you dare pity me. I’ve had a good life. I was a successful architect. There’re buildings in this bloody city that’ll last longer than you and everyone else alive. They prove I was good. I’ve got two wonderful children and a grandchild …’ She stopped and stared straight through me as if she was looking into another dimension where faces and walls and pillars didn’t matter. ‘I’ve got a grandchild on the way. It’ll be touch and go whether I’ll live to see it.’
The waitress came to take our plates. I’d eaten most of my meal but Cyn’s was barely touched.
‘Was there something wrong ma’am?’
Cyn shook her head.
‘Will there be anything else, sir?’
‘No, thank you. Nothing else.’
She cleared the table, leaving the dregs of our drinks, and beat a retreat. I knew what she was thinking—a middle-age marriage break up, bad news. She wasn’t to know that she was right in a way, except that the break-up had happened before she was born.
‘I’m not poor,’ Cyn said. ‘I can pay you.’
‘What?’
‘I can pay for your services. That blazer’s seen better days, so has the shirt. You’re obviously not rolling in money.’
That was the old Cyn. On the attack. Somehow, though, it seemed sad and I didn’t rise to the bait as I would have in the old days. I finished the wine. It tasted sour.
‘What d’you want me to do?’
‘I want you to keep a watch on me for a few days. What do you call it? A surveillance. And when she appears I want to meet her. I want to talk to her. I want to find out about her. Help her if she needs it, be happy if she doesn’t. I want to meet our child, Cliff. Before I die.’
3
I said I’d do it. Cyn gave me the photo of Eve saying that ‘our daughter’ so much resembled her that I could use the photo in my enquiries. She described the woman in as much detail as she could. Short, dark hair, casual clothes, quick movements. Cyn had seen her three or four times, always in the vicinity of her unit in Crows Nest—at a bus stop, through a shop window, standing on the other side of the road. She thought she’d seen her in a van parked opposite her building but she couldn’t be sure.
‘What kind of van?’
‘Blue and other colours.’
‘C’mon, Cyn.’
‘I don’t know about vans. It wasn’t new. I’m tired, Cliff. I have to go home.’
‘I’d drive you except that I didn’t bring my car into town.’
‘It’s all right, I’ll get a cab. Anyway, we shouldn’t be seen together. You have to be as good as she is at keeping your distance.’ She dabbed at some perspiration that was breaking out on her upper lip and looked intently at me.
‘What?’ I said.
‘I was just wondering whether she’d see a resemblance between herself and you. You and Eve’re pretty much alike as I recall.’
‘Come off it, Cyn. I’ve been knocked about too much to resemble anyone but myself. Besides, she won’t see me until I want her to.’
‘I suppose that’s right. You must be good at what you do by now. How is Eve, anyway?’
‘Fine. She just got made redundant from the CES. Golden handshake—more time for golf.’
Cyn’s eyes were glazing over the way many people’s do at the mention of golf. But in her case it was exhaustion.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘I liked her. I hope …’
‘What?’
‘I hope our daughter is as nice as your sister. That’d be fine. I know this is hard for you. We didn’t part friends, did we? More like enemies. I hated you and I think you hated me. I nursed that hate for a long time but it’s well and truly gone now. I’m too tired and sick to hate. It takes everything just to stay alive. This is unfinished business for me and I’ve sort of … forgiven us both for what we did to each other. I need you to find her.’
‘I have to be honest with you, Cyn. I’ll give it my very best. I’m impressed by what you say you want to do if she shows. But I’m still sceptical. I can’t help it.’
Cyn sighed. ‘That’s all right. You’re sceptical about everything except that Tommy Burns beat Jack Johnson in 1901.’
She had it the wrong way around and the year was 1908, but it was a brave try. ‘That’s right,’ I said.
‘I’ll walk down to the shops every morning and every afternoon for the rest of this week. At ten o’clock and two o’clock, say. You keep watch. As for what you do when she appears, I’ll leave it up to you. For all your macho bullshit, Cliff, you’re not stupid. I trust you to do it right. You’ve got something invested here, even if you don’t want to think so.’
Born and raised in Maroubra and spending most of my adult life in Glebe, to me the north side of the harbour has always seemed like foreign territory. The light is different and the people likewise. They seem more suburban and less secure than those on the other side. I’m not sure it was such a good idea to build the bridge.
I cleared the decks in my office and mounted the surveillance in Crows Nest as Cyn had directed. I tracked her by foot on her slow progress from her unit down the street to the shopping centre. When we were together Cyn had boundless energy. She could work without sleep for forty-eight hours and play pretty hard, too. She was a good, all-round sportswoman and I had trouble keeping up with her in a beach sprint or a swimming pool. It broke my heart to see her now. Bundled in a heavy coat that concealed her gauntness, she still walked erect. But it was with an effort and every movement and gesture had slowed right down.
In the afternoons particularly, I wondered if she was going to be able to make it; to keep up the charade of window-shopping, browsing and buying odd items. She did it by an effort of will and her performance was faultless. She gave not the slightest indication that she was aware of my presence. I flatter myself I was hard to spot, but she knew and no one would be able to tell. On the Wednesday night, with no sign of the young woman, I phoned.
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Not a cracker.’
‘Be patient. It might take a while.’
‘How are you feeling? It looks like an effort for you.’
‘I’m all right. I can hold out for a while longer.’
The next day a tall, gangly youth with shoulder-length hair parked a battered Honda Civic outside Cyn’s building and went in. I watched with no particular interest—until he emerged with Cyn and helped her into the car. Her son, I assumed. He drove her to the shops and carried her bags to the car. They stopped and had coffee on the way back. He seemed attentive and considerate. They laughed a good deal and Cyn appeared to draw strength from him. He took her home, stayed a while, then sat in his car with his head on the steering wheel for quite a few minutes before he drove off. Although I was interested in the interaction between mother and son and moved by his obvious love for her, I still kept a sharp lookout for the girl. Nothing.
One day to go on the agreed arrangement. I was troubled by the thought that I couldn’t continue this deal indefinitely. A couple of messages on the answering machine and a couple of faxes demanded attention and promised money. It was early in July, and the accounts kept over from the old financial year were coming in. More troubling were the conflicting thoughts I was having about the whole matter. I wondered what Cyn’s two legitimate children would think about the possible existence of a half-sibling. And what the legal implications might be. Along with that, having seen the bond between Cyn and her son, I felt a pang about having nothing remotely like that in my own life. The corollary of that was obvious, if disturbing—did I have a daughter? Did I want or need one?
Friday morning. I was late getting to the gym and had to rush my workout. I wasn’t quite a gymaholic but getting close, and I was annoyed by having to cut back. Still testy, I slotted into my parking spot, checked my watch and waited for Cyn to come out. The sky was overcast and there was a cold wind and the threat of rain. Maybe Cyn would give it a miss and I could go back and do a few more reps on the pec deck. I should have known better. She came out right on time, wrapped in her heavy coat and carrying an umbrella. She looked frail, as if the wind could blow her over. It made me angry to think what this person was putting her through, if indeed there was a person. I was beginning to work back to my original theory about a fantasy induced by drugs or despair. I crawled along, keeping her in sight, until it was time to park and continue on foot.
Cyn went into a newsagency and bought a magazine and a scratchie. She used a nail file on the ticket and I saw the pleased, almost childlike, expression on her face when she saw the result. I stared, fascinated; it was an action so unlike anything I would have expected from Cyn that it took all my attention. As a result, I almost missed the girl. It was just a glimpse as she moved quickly away but it was enough to register two things—her contempt at what she’d seen and the uncanny resemblance to my sister as she once was. She was about the same height and build and moved with the same long, fluid stride. That stride was taking her rapidly away from me into the thick Friday crowd as I skirted people waiting in a bus queue and swore as a van shot out of a lane in front of me.
I ran when the lane was clear and saw her well ahead, moving quickly through the crowd, her dark head bobbing. I was fifty metres behind her and gaining when she opened the passenger door of a Kombi van that looked as if it had been painted by John Lennon on acid. I sprinted. No hope of stopping the van but maybe I could get close enough to read the number. I stopped, squinted and read the letters and digits aloud, repeating them several times before scribbling them on my palm with a ballpoint. I was uncertain about one of the numbers. It could have been a five, but perhaps it was a three. Not a bad result under the circumstances. People in the street looked at me and edged away. I didn’t blame them. You can’t be too careful about out-of-breath men talking to themselves and writing things on their skin.
